


The State of Arthur’s Sex Life

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur rides Eames into the carpet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The State of Arthur’s Sex Life

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted at the [kink meme](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/18462.html?thread=42613278). I cleaned it up somewhat to post and orphan here. Because my shame for this first Inception fanfiction piece is still so very deep.

The state of Arthur's sex life for the past year, even before the Fischer inception, has been rather sad. 

Frankly, dealing with Cobb—as both a friend and an extractor—took so much out of him that he ended the day ready to zone out to bad late night TV and incapable of mustering up the necessary enthusiasm needed to bar hop in order to pick up a willing someone. Plus, Cobb always ended up rooming right next door and having to explain beautiful strangers to a man who seemed to be in perpetual mourning would be tacky and not a little awkward. And even more awkward ever since Cobb had learned the word ‘bromance’ from those trashy magazines he insisted on picking up at every airport. 

But after Cobb went back stateside Arthur still found himself alone. He still didn't go out much and he still watched too much late night TV and he hadn't had sex except with his own right hand in far too long. 

It was only worse now that Cobb wasn't around to use as an excuse. 

So that’s how Arthur found himself staring at some train wreck of a TV show at eleven, lying on top of the nondescript printed covers of his anonymous hotel bed. His attention wandered frequently, but it seemed that the entire point of the show was to bring up old, unsolved murder cases and skew audience perception one way or the other before confronting whichever person the show’s producers had decided was guilty. It was sort of a true crime and soap opera hybrid—perfect for whittling another night away. Apparently, tonight he was supposed to believe that this 90-pound lady—age 60 at the time of the crime—had killed her hulking son-in-law with a hammer for abusing her daughter and grandkids.

Secretly, he was rooting for it to be true.

The show's host had not yet confronted the now 80-year-old murderess when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the display, he answered the call with a short: "Eames, it's late."

"Arthur, hello! Been far too long, hasn't it? How are things? Cobb, the kids, etcetera."

"Eames."

"Right, pleasantries are so mundane, aren't they?"

"At eleven at night they are. Is this important?" The camera crew was just knocking on the murderess' door.

"Would I call otherwise?" Which was a good point. Eames was a model professional when he wasn't kicking Arthur's chair and Arthur suspected it took several days of back-and-forth irritation to even get to that level. 

"Go on."

"You're in Prague."

Alarm made Arthur shoot straight up in bed, horrible TV show forgotten. "How did you know that? I only got here yesterday."

"Arthur, well, you didn't hear it from me, but, um, I have it under good authority that you're current team has a certain unscrupulous member with a striking inability to keep his mouth shut regarding relevant facts. For instance: your target, location—“

"Keyes."

"Got it in one."

"God-fucking-damnit. This was a big job. I told fucking Liv not to hire him as our chemist. Of course, no one bothers listening to the damn point man," he fumed. "Wait. What 'good authority' do you have, Eames?"

"The best kind: an almost-empty bottle of Jameson and someone far too talkative for his own good." Arthur can't help but raise an eyebrow at that, because Eames doesn't sound the least bit drunk.

"He's still alive, right, Eames?"

"Hmm, I should think so. Or at least he was when I last saw him."

"Eames."

"Well, I might have mentioned his infraction to your architect, who just so happens to have a bad history with loose lips on a team and also happened to be utterly pissed as well."

Arthur scrubbed his hand over his eyes, suddenly very tired. "Great. So I'm out of a job before it even begins and came to the Czech Republic for no reason. Great."

"Well, it doesn't have to be for 'no reason,' darling," Eames answered in a low voice, all lazy innuendo.

Arthur froze, at a loss for how to respond, and thought inanely, ‘ _Holy shit, I don't even remember how to flirt. Cobb fucking_ castrated _me._ ’

"Arthur, still with me?"

"Yes, sorry, I was, um, just caught up in this show. Sorry. You said that you're in Prague, too?" Very smooth. Of all the things flirting may or may not be, it probably doesn’t t mean telling someone that you weren't paying attention because a stupid _late night TV show._

"Hmm. I hadn't quite said as much, but I am. Honestly, I was going the subtle route, but it never seems to have much effect with you. So, simply put, I was about to proposition you.”

"Yes," Arthur responds, hurried.

Eames' warm chuckle over the line was a pleasant sound that curled through him, starting low and working through Arthur’s ribcage, "Is that a 'yes' to—"

"My hotel or yours, Eames?"

Eames sucked in a breath and sounded almost surprised, "Whichever you prefer, darling. Yours might be the nicer between the two, though."

"Then get over here." Without saying good-bye he ends the call and texts the address to Eames, hands tense with anticipation. After a second, he realizes he forgot to add the room number and sends that as well. In his defense, it has been several months since his last one night stand and he's been admiring Eames' physique since he met him.

"Shit," Arthur announces to the empty room. He had no idea where in the city Eames was coming from or how long he might take. He wants to take a long and pick up (not that the room is all that messy after only day). Instead, he settles for the fastest shower known to man (a remnant skill from his Army days) and dresses again in one of his more casual pairs of slacks and a button-up shirt rolled to the elbow—hopefully casual enough to look like he wasn't worried but dressy enough to lend a little confidence and make him look good.

Then came the waiting.

It's a full thirty minutes before he hears a knock at his door. He only checks through the peephole briefly before opening the door to Eames' grin. "Arthur. If I had only known to take the direct route, I'd have done this much sooner, I promise you."

"Fucking finally," Arthur mutters exasperatedly and reels Eames into the room with a fist wrapped into the collar of Eames’ shirt. The door clicks shut behind them and Arthur crowds Eames up into it, smattering open mouthed kisses and licks along the his stubbled jaw. 

"Been awhile, then, has it?"

"Just stop talking," Arthur says between kisses. "Or you’re already failing at the 'direct route'."

"Hmm," Eames says and presses his own mouth—blessedly silent—against Arthur's, offering a playful lick at Arthur's lips. All too happy to respond, Arthur deepens the kiss head already spinning dizzily, which is exactly why it's a horrible idea to opt for late night TV over sex for so long. For one, it makes him a too-easy lay if a handsome and built coworker should ever make an utterly random booty call and, two, it really lowers the standard of expectation. Because Arthur is downright _impressed_ when Eames shifts his mouth so that the his stubble lightly scrapes along Arthur's cheek and moves down to kiss and bite at the offered neck. "Didn't think that I'd ever get you like this, you know." And Arthur won't complain about Eames talking this time, because he's brushing his lips right at the edge of the collar of Arthur's shirt as he speaks. "Thought for the longest time you were all wrapped up in Cobb." 

Arthur glares and Eames laughs at him. 

"I figured out quickly enough that Cobb's not what does it for you, darling. Recently, actually. I think he called you 'the Wilson to his House,' which I took to mean that he's watching far too much TV with the little ones." Although Arthur would very much like to die of mortification, he’d much rather get on with the sex. Eames seems to know this, because still with a smiling curling over his full lips, he nudges Arthur's chin up with his nose so he can suck and lick at the juncture between neck and skull. Meanwhile his clever hands are undoing buttons slowly down Arthur's chest.

Arthur is nearly overwhelmed completely. "Eames," he says and it's close enough to a whimper that he flinches internally. Eames gives him a particularly sharp bite, obviously not having missed it. He smooths his hands over Arthur's now completely unbuttoned shirt, moving over Arthur's shoulders so that the shirt falls off behind him.

Feeling outmatched, Arthur decides it's time to take the initiative. Out of practice or not, he's not going to just let Eames call him up and then ravish him like some romantic heroine. He yanks at the hem of Eames' t-shirt (of course, he didn't worry like Arthur about the whole casual-but-not-too-casual protocol of a first-time fuck, which absolutely figures). Eames is pliant as the shirt is pulled up and over his head, raising his arms to help. 

"Jesus fuck, Eames," Arthur says. Every line of Eames' torso is defined beautifully. From neck, shoulders, arms, abs, obliques… 

Eames is obviously pleased with the attention, preening. "Careful, I'll take that as approval, Arthur."

Well, there isn't much point denying it at this point. "Damn right it's approval." Arthur pushes his hips against Eames, pushing the man as far back as he can into the door--with the added bonus of some delicious friction on his painfully hard cock. Eames isn't exactly unaffected, either, by his quick intake of breath how his hands clutch at Arthur's bare shoulders.

He skates his hands along the smooth planes of Eames' chest, dipping his fingers into each groove of muscle—the long curve of his shoulder then the bulge of his bicep, each ladder rung of his obliques. He trails his fingers until he reaches the top button of Eames' jeans. It's quick work to undo the zipper and to tug them together with Eames' boxers roughly midway down Eames' muscular thighs. 

"If you like, you can take this as approval as well," Arthur says and goes to his knees.

Giving an experimental licks, Arthur feels a little of his hesitancy ebb back. Even before Cobb and the Era of No Sex, blow jobs always were a little boring for him—nothing more than a necessary pre-game warm up. Right now, though, he truly wants to suck Eames, because he's fucking gorgeous and makes wonderful murmuring noises of encouragement without seeming to realize it.

"Fuck, Arthur, yes. Like that. Just."

It's incoherent, soaked thickly through with Eames' accent, and a huge turn on. It’s more than enough feedback for Arthur to discard any worry, taking all of Eames into his mouth at once. The action is immediately rewarded: _"Fuck, Arthur."_ He presses his thumbs into the dip of Eames' hipbones, pleased with himself and admiring how his hands fit so perfectly spanned across the muscular man's skin.

Eames' fingers are running through his hair, alternately affectionate and tugging lightly in response to Arthur's own tongue and mouth. Light teasing licks earn him a cupped hand at the back of his neck, a hard suck fists in his hair--it's intoxicating along and Arthur doesn't remember why he ever thought he hated giving blow jobs before.

"Darling," Eames voice is hoarse, "Darling, you should, I think you, you really should stop unless you want this over at the doorway, hey." Reluctantly Arthur pulls off. As soon as he does, he finds himself pulled up into the grip of Eames' arms and being kissed breathlessly. "Arthur, can I—“

"Yes."

Another long kiss, "It's amazingly hot when you answer me affirmatively without hearing the full question."

"It's worked out for me so far.” Arthur says and slides his hands down Eames’ back until he can fish through the back pocket of the jeans still hanging around the man's legs. As expected, he finds a condom and lube, which is actually a relief, since Arthur definitely doesn't have anything of the sort on hand at the moment. Eames notices and chuckles again against the skin of his temple, "Hope I wasn't being presumptuous, Arthur."

"Not at all. And I hope the same," he answers, hooking his leg behind Eames to topple the man—hobbled by his jeans—straight to the carpet floor. Graciously, he slows the fall as much as he can--and then uses the leverage to turn Eames onto his back so that he can immediately straddle his thighs.

"God, Arthur."

Arthur silences any possible protest with a wet, sloppy kiss. And some purposeful grinding of his crotch against Eames’. Eames takes the hint, "Give me the lube then, yeah?"

Arthur doesn't. Instead he sets the items aside so that he can raise his hips just enough to undo his belt and remove his remaining clothes while maintaining the most body contact as possible. He can't help but trace the outline of a tattoo with his tongue. He says, "You look so fucking good, Eames. I fully intend to get myself ready and ride your fat cock straight into this hotel carpet. And you, you are going to love every second of it." 

"Fuck yes."

Eames' hands come to rest over Arthur's thighs, stroking lightly up and down, gaining distance each arc from knee to groin. Each motion is a tease, getting so close to Arthur's dick--which is pretty insistent for attention at this point--and so far away after. The drag of skin on skin is also oddly intimate in the moment, fond where Arthur expected only lust. He shakes off the incongruent moment and instead slicks up his fingers so he can reach behind himself. Eames is breathing distinctly raggedly, his eyes fixed on Arthur. Eames' full attention is just about the hottest thing Arthur has ever seen, all dilated and lips parted. Those big hands slide across Arthur's thigh, uninterested in teasing any longer to cup his balls and stroke along his cock. "Arthur, you're killing me." 

Arthur huffs a laugh, spreading his legs further and adds an extra finger, being economical about his movements because, really, all he wants is to have Eames in him now. "Put it on," he says with a nod to towards the condom. Eames scrambles to comply, rolling it over himself and positioning his hands at Arthur's hips. "C'mon, darling. I want you."

Arthur allows himself to be pulled where Eames wants him, enjoying the sensation of Eames' cock rubbing against the cleft of his ass. Eames takes himself in one hand as he guides Arthur down and the other clenched almost painfully at Arthur's protruding hip bone. Arthur's heart is pounding as if trying to escape his chest as he remembers the burn and fill of sex this way and tries not to think of how long it's been.

"God, you're gorgeous like that," Eames says. Arthur studies him, keeping steady a moment. He can't help but think that the words were accidental--it's Eames who looks like he walked out of a calendar featuring firefighters or boxers or something equally ridiculous. Rather than embarrass himself saying anything like that aloud, he gives an experimental move of his hips. It hurts a little, but not too badly, so he pulls his hips up and slams them down.

He will never get sick of those incoherent gasps and moans Eames makes. Some suspiciously sounding like 'Arthur.'

Eames must feel like Arthur's too lost in his head, because both hands are at his hips, trying to lift him to movement. The result is an awkward compromise of half-thrusts. Arthur slaps Eames' hands away, irritated, "Either work with me here or not at all. Fuck."

Eames groans, but allows his arms subside. Arthur takes up the work of pushing up and down, shoving Eames' larger frame across the floor millimeter by millimeter. The angle is fantastic, sparking pleasure through Arthur's spine, but the momentum isn't enough. He adjusts into a squat more than a straddle and shoves down harder. Eames groans like he's dying. 

"That's fucking perfect. You're fucking perfect," Arthur bites on his tongue in order to stop saying anything more incriminating. Firefighter calendars or the fact he hasn't had sex in months, but this might be the best sex of his life. Distracted with those thoughts, he has no defense for when Eames hand wraps around his cock and moans as he comes in spurts across the Eames stomach and chest. 

"Arthur, I--"

Boneless after orgasm, Arthur is already slumping forward, but manages to mumble out, "I've said 'yes' how many times tonight? Go ahead." A drop of sweat rolls from his forehead to fall on the tattoo on Eames' chest. 

Eames presses a kiss against his shoulder thankfully, lowering Arthur to the carpet and positioning behind him instead. Arthur's arms are too wobbly to hold himself up, so he's very aware that it's the strength of Eames' arms that hold him up on his knees and leaned forward. Eames doesn't waste any time pressing back in and regaining a rhythm. Arthur feels vaguely annoyed at feeling his own semen pressed into his back from Eames' stomach, but too content to really care. It doesn't take long before Eames loses rhythm and comes with a low grunt. To Eames' credit, he doesn't collapse as Arthur had, but guides them both into a spooning position on the floor, chests heaving instead.

"Hmmm, that was nice," Eames nuzzles into the curl of hair at Arthur's neck, tickling slightly as the hair shifts under his breath. 

"I guess so."

Eames gives him a bite and adds in mock offended tone, "What else did you have to do in Prague that was half as interesting, then?"

"Well, there was TV," Arthur says, but his smile gives him away.

Eames scoffs. Loudly. "Cobb said you'd be watching late night telly."

Arthur shifts to face him, "When did you speak with Cobb?"

"Shortly after I spoke with Keyes, actually. The disturbing you're-his-Wilson conversation only occurred, say, an hour or two ago." Eames smiles, running his knuckles along the side of Arthur's face and neck. "He might have mentioned that you've been a bit lonesome lately."

Cobb-related-humiliation really shouldn't be possible after the man _retires_ and moves _half a world away._

"Don't be sore, Arthur. All's well that end's well or something along that line." Eames says, now with a cheeky grin, "You have rug burn on your knees, you know."

Arthur's eventually answers, "Well, you have rug burn all down your fucking back."

"Too true. Well worth it." He presses another fond kiss against Arthur's temple. Arthur has always marveled how the man has so many masks, so much competence, but still has moments of genuine vulnerability and earnestness. "A shower, then, before you toss me out?"

"I didn't say I was tossing you out. Maybe I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh, Arthur, as flattering as that is, you've thoroughly broke me for the evening. Out of order, offline, closed for business—you get the idea."

Arthur pauses, too relaxed to be nonchalant about this, "Maybe in the morning then?"

Eames grins, eyes lighting up fondly, "Morning sounds just fine, Arthur."


End file.
